If Wishes Were Horses
by Ross7
Summary: At one point or another, every person finds him—or her—self wishing that they could somehow go back in time and redirect a certain course of events. Unfortunately, life rarely, if ever, makes allowances for ‘do overs’.
1. Chapter 1

**Author' note:** This is the sequel to EMERGENCY! Book One: "There's Just No 'Getting Away From It All". In order to better understand the continuing storyline, you may want to read the first book before beginning this one. :)

**Disclaimer:** The characters from Station 51 and Rampart General belong to Mark VII. They have been borrowed strictly for fun—and not for fortune.

**EMERGENCY! **

**Book Two **

"**If Wishes Were Horses"**

**By Ross7**

**Chapter One**

"_If wishes were horses,  
Beggars would ride.  
If turnips were watches,  
I would wear one by my side."_

—_Author Unknown_

"Good morning! Good morning! Good morning!" John Gage enthusiastically—and most energetically—exclaimed, as he came bursting into L.A. County Fire Station 51's locker room the following sunny a.m..

Chet Kelly, who had accompanied his chum into the room, stared at their stunned shift-mates for a few moments and then accusingly inquired, "You guys been workin' hard? Or, hardly workin'?"

There followed much backslapping, handshaking and wisecracking, as Roy, Mike and Marco welcomed their fellow firefighters—and friends—back to the station.

Gage grinned, seeing that 'the guys' were all staring at his _hairy_ upper lip.

DeSoto, especially, wasn't quite sure _what_ to make of, either the mustache _on_, or the amazing transformation _in_, his—recently deathly-ill and bed-ridden—best buddy. "Johnny, you look…_great_!"

"Thanks! I feel _great_."

Seeing as how Mike and Marco had struck up a separate conversation with the no-longer-missing member of their Engine crew, John struck one of his own up with his partner. "So-o…How many different replacements have they sent over for me?"

"Ah, let's see…Wright was here the first week. Potter was here the second week. Franklin was here the third week. Brice was here last week. I don't know who's next. I sure hope it's someone I can get along with…"

"Don't worry. I'm sure you'll get along just fine. Who's been replacing Chet?"

"Pete Hanson has been here the whole two weeks." Roy couldn't seem to stop smiling. "It sure is _good_ to see you again. When did you guys get back?"

"Yesterday afternoon."

DeSoto's smile did a disappearing act. "You must be tired from all that traveling. Shouldn't you be _home_…_resting_…_in bed_?"

"Heck, no! I'm good ta go!" Gage enthusiastically declared, with wave of his arms and yet another _hairy_ grin. "And, I can _assure_ you that my next replacement **will be** someone you can get along with."

Kelly caught the paramedic's comment and shot him an 'oh brother' look, but remained silent.

Roy had found Johnny's first statement _slightly_ reassuring and his second somewhat intriguing. "What? Have you heard who they're sending over?…Who is it?" he further inquired, following his friend's nod.

"See if you can guess…"

DeSoto's jaw dropped open. "Do you realize how many paramedics there are in this county?"

"Apparently, not nearly enough," Gage grumbled beneath his breath, but then prompted his partner again. "C'mon. Guess…"

Roy exhaled a sigh of resignation. "Do I know him?"

"Extremely well."

"Have I worked with him before?"

"Definitely!"

"A lot?"

"A whole lot!"

DeSoto winced. "Not another week with Super Medic? Craig Brice?"

"No. It's not Brice."

"It has to be Brice. He's the only guy I've worked with a whole lot."

"The only?"

"Well…except for you. But, _you_ don't count."

John arched an eyebrow. "Oh?" He crossed over to and opened _his _locker. "Brice was wearing my helmet again, wasn't he."

Roy stepped up beside him. "Yeah. Why? How could you tell?"

"I can see myself in it. Brice is a great _polisher_." Gage set his shiny headgear down on the bench in front of his locker and began unbuttoning his shirt.

"What are you doing?" his partner nervously inquired.

"I'm taking my shirt off."

"I can _see_ that. But, _why_ are you taking your shirt off?"

"Because a long-sleeved shirt would look 'tacky' under a short-sleeved uniform."

DeSoto's jaw dropped again. "_You-ou_?!"

Gage rested a hand on his shocked associate's shoulder. "I knew—if I gave you enough hints—that you could guess."

"B-But…you can't come back yet! What about your temporary leave of absence?"

"Turns out, two weeks was temporary enough."

Roy's smile made a spectacular reappearance. "This is really on the level? You can really come back to work?"

Gage finished buttoning his light blue uniform shirt and gave his happy pal a grin and another definite nod.

"All right!" DeSoto declared, looking and sounding positively ecstatic. He gave Gage's back a few more congratulatory slaps and his right hand another hearty and heartfelt shake. "It's _great_ to have you **back**…Partner!"

"It's great to **be** _back_…Partner!" John announced, sounding equally jubilant. He slipped his blue jeans off and his uniform slacks on. "I really missed working with you."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." The pensive paramedic pulled his boots on and pinned his badge and department nameplate in place. Then he threaded his belt through the loops in his navy blue britches and attached his paramedic's assessment kit to it. Gage got his shirt's tails tucked in and began fumbling with his belt's buckle. "A month is a loooong time."

DeSoto finished changing and shot his friend a solemn sidewise glance. "You have no idea what a loooong time is, until you've worked a shift with Craig Brice."

John sniggered delightedly and finally finished snugging up and fastening his bootlaces. The fireman then bent down to snatch his _glistening_ black helmet up from the bench.

Captain Hank Stanley came strolling into the room. "Hey, Kelly! Good ta see yah, pal! Welcome back!"

"Thanks, Cap!" Chet took and shook his boss' extended hand. "I brought you some rain."

"I appreciate that. I truly do. But it barely settled the dust. The Department should probably take up a collection and send you back for some more."

John stepped up beside the 'rain man'.

Hank shot the new arrival a strange stare. "Say, Chester, who's your friend?" he teased. The Captain cocked his head and squinted. "Wait…he looks _vaguely_ familiar. Ga-age? Is that _you_, hiding behind that cookie duster?"

The guys snickered.

Gage grinned sheepishly back at his boss. "Yeah, Cap. It's me."

Stanley carefully patted the paramedic on the back and even more gingerly shook his proffered palm. "When headquarters called, just now, I couldn't believe it! So, I had ta come and see for myself…" he paused to give the still-grinning member of his crew a closer scrutiny. This was most definitely _not_ the same young man he'd last seen lying on his backside in a hospital bed just two, short weeks ago. No sir-ree!

The mustache was not the only noticeable change in John Gage. The spring was back in the paramedic's step, the sparkle was back in his eyes and his body, literally, exuded energy!

No wonder the doctors had cleared him for duty. "Welcome back, John!"

Gage exhaled a silent sigh of relief. He could tell by Stanley's smile that he'd passed his careful inspection. "Thanks, Cap! It's great to **be** back!"

"You look fabulous!" his Captain continued.

"I feel fabulous."

Hank's smile of approval broadened into a grin. "What d'yah say we all go grab some coffee, and the two of you can regale the rest of us with the 'chilling' accounts of your 'icy' escapades…"

The men fell in behind their Captain and followed him out of the locker room…across their fire station's **empty** apparatus bay…and into the rec' and dining area.

* * *

There, resting on the kitchen counter, was a tall, gaily-wrapped cardboard box.

Everyone seemed surprised to see it setting there—with the exception of John and Chet.

"What's that?" Marco wondered. "A souvenir of Minnesota?"

"Michigan," Kelly corrected him. "We went to Michigan."

Henry had abandoned his couch cushion and come growling into the kitchen to greet the two previously missing members of Station 51's A-Shift crew.

"Hey, Kid!" Chet stooped to the grumbling Basset Hound's level. "Did yah miss us?"

John joined him and they both received warm, wet, growly greetings. The paramedic stared down at his now slightly slobbered on helmet, looking pleased.

"Henry missed us," Kelly translated. "He says he's glad we're back."

"Oh yeah?" John looked somewhat dubious. "If he's so doggoned happy ta see us, then why is he still growling?"

The 'dog whisperer' got stiffly to his feet. "Ah, he's just sore cuz we didn't take him with."

His traveling companion looked even more skeptical and dropped the helmet in his hands onto the kitchen floor, in an attempt to scuff it up a little.

Roy could no longer contain his curiosity. He turned to his fellow paramedic and asked, point blank, "What's in the box?"

His no-longer-stooping partner set his retrieved headgear down on the table and replied with a couple of quick questions of his own. "You know how we're always accusing one another of stealing each other's coffee? So that, by the end of the shift, six guys have dirtied a dozen different cups?"

The guys glanced thoughtfully at one another, and then nodded.

"Well, Chet and I have come up with the perfect solution!"

The corners of Mike Stoker's mouth started moving upwards. "Styrofoam cups?"

Gage gave the now wryly-grinning guesser a 'ha ha ha' glance.

"Go ahead, Cap!" Kelly encouraged. "Open it."

Hank peeled the festive wrapping paper from the top of the package and courageously lifted the box's lid. He raised his bushy eyebrows, as well, and whistled softly.

All eyes watched as their Captain carefully extracted the container's contents—a beautiful wooden tree with six, large, ceramic coffee mugs hanging on it.

Stanley rested the heavy mug tree down on the counter.

Gage took one of the cups and held it up. "The mugs have our names on them. See? This is Marco's," he pointed out and passed Lopez his personalized coffee cup.

C-A-P had been printed across one of the fire engine red cups in big, bold, black letters. Stanley stared down at the mug in amazement. "Where did you ever find these?"

Chet grinned. "You might say we had them _tailor-made_."

John groaned at the Irishman's pun. "The artist's name is Taylor…Vickie Ann Taylor. We 'commissioned' her to make these for us."

"Not only is this _gorgeous_ girl an amazing ceramic artist," Kelly promptly—and proudly—continued, "she's also an _incredible_ skier!"

"What d'yah say we try them out?" their Captain proposed.

The men rinsed their new mugs out in the sink and then crossed over to the Station's brand new Bunn automatic drip coffee-maker.

"New coffee-maker…new coffee mugs. Ahhh, life is good," Hank Stanley lightly assessed as he and his _complete_ crew took their seats at their little family's rather large kitchen table.

* * *

One informal roll call, two carafes of Bunn coffee—and close to an hour of regaling—later, the men finally heard their fire station's heavy garage door start to grind its way open.

Idling engines were silenced. Truck doors were slammed. Boot heels shuffled across the parking bay.

"Must be nice," one of C-shift's paramedics mumbled, as he stumbled wearily past the day room's open doorway.

"Ron," Hank acknowledged, as C-shift's Captain poked his head into the room.

"Hank," Ron Graham greeted him right back. "I see you and your men are conducting one of those close-quarter MTM drills," Stanley's counter-part teased.

The two Captains exchanged grins.

Then, Graham was gone.

It wasn't two seconds later, the Station's tones sounded.

"**Squad 51**…"

John and Roy set their mugs down and slid their chairs back.

DeSoto tossed his helmet on and started trotting toward their truck.

Gage snatched his still-glistening headgear up and followed his friend out into the garage.

The guys on the engine crew got up to go see them off.

* * *

Stanley stepped out, to answer the call. Hank watched, in confusion, as Roy climbed into the Squad and then sat there—alone. "Where's John?"

DeSoto stared at the empty seat beside him and shrugged. "I thought he was right behind me."

"He was!"

"Cap?! You're gonna wanna see this!" Mike Stoker suddenly predicted, from somewhere just out of sight.

"Kelly, answer the call!" Hank ordered.

* * *

The Captain stepped around the back of the Squad and up to where Stoker was standing.

His engineer pointed, wordlessly, to the concrete beneath their feet.

John Gage was lying face down on the garage floor, on the passenger's side of the Squad…doing push-ups.

Stanley stared, in disbelief, as John did yet another push-up. "Ga-age?"

"Yeah, Cap?" the paramedic breathlessly pondered, without stopping.

"That was the alarm. Remember the alarm?"

"Yeah, Cap."

"Aren't you going with Roy?"

"Yeah, Cap."

"Well, then, _what in blue blazes are you doing on the floor?!_"

"I'm breaking up…the automatic workings...of conditioning...I figure I kin do…ten push-ups…and still get into the Squad…before you hand Roy the call slip." John completed his last push-up, picked his helmet—and himself—up off the floor, yanked the truck's passenger door open, and slipped into his seat.

As if to prove his point, just then, Chet passed Roy the call slip.

Gage pulled his helmet's chinstrap up, snugly, and smiled, smugly.

"We'll talk about this some more," his unimpressed Captain promised. "Just as soon as you get back," he sternly added and shoved the truck's open door shut.

The smile left John's face.

The Squad left the parking bay and pulled out onto the street, lights flashing and siren blaring.

Stanley just stood there, slowly shaking his numb noggin.

Lopez and Kelly stepped up to their still somewhat stunned boss.

"Man!" Marco exclaimed. "That was **really** _strange_."

"Yeah," the Captain numbly agreed. Something suddenly occurred to him and he perked up a bit. "It **was**, wasn't it." Hank smiled and started heading for his office.

It was kind a' nice to have things back to **ab**normal around there.

**TBC**

**Author's note:** MTM stands for Mug-To-Mouth.


	2. Chapter 2

"If Wishes Were Horses"

**Chapter Two**

Gage glanced down at the little slip of paper in his hands. He'd been too busy talking to the Captain, to take note of the call address. "Uhhh…Take a right two blocks up. We can follow Levine all the way over to Alameda."

DeSoto nodded and immediately signaled a lane change. "Back there…in Michigan," he tentatively began, speaking loud enough to be heard over their rescue squad's wailing siren, "if you hadn't received certification in time…" he shot his partner an anxious glance, "what would you have done?"

"Watch out for that green car on your left," his navigator warned, as they approached the next intersection. "I don't think they see us."

Roy dodged the green car as easily as his buddy had dodged his question, and turned right, onto Levine. "What would you have done?" he tenaciously re-inquired

John contemplated his partner's repeated question over for a few blocks. "I would have…done _exactly _what **you** would have done," he finally 'fessed up' and flashed his inquisitive friend a sly, slightly askew smile.

DeSoto considered the dire implications of his pal's evasive answer over for a few moments. Damn! Just as he'd suspected. He'd nearly lost his paramedic partner. "Remind me to send Dr. Hunter and Mr. Jandron some thank you notes," he lightly requested and gave his fellow firefighter—and best friend—an appreciative glance.

The two men locked gazes for an instant.

Gage looked equally grateful to find himself still seated beside his best buddy, and his sly smile slowly graduated into a wry grin.

* * *

It took five more minutes for the pair to arrive at 411 South Alameda Drive.

DeSoto pulled up to the palm-tree-lined street's curb, threw their truck's tranny into PARK and then killed both its engine and its siren. He was just about to open his door, when an extremely distraught young woman came barreling around the Squad's front bumper.

"Please…hurry!" she frantically requested, but then stood there, effectively blocking the fireman's exit. "It's…my son! He's…too afraid…to come down!"

Gage reached the hyperventilating lady's side in seconds and ushered her away from the door, so his partner could climb out. "All right, mam. Now, why don't you just take some nice, deep breaths," he calmly advised, "and tell us where your son is."

The boy's mother was still breathing too hard to speak, so she simply pointed to one of the street's tall, stately palm trees.

John took the woman in tow and the three of them headed over to the tree in question.

* * *

The two firemen stood at the base of the tall tree's trunk and gazed up into the spoke-like branches of its lush green canopy.

A rather brisk breeze was causing the tree to sway. Suddenly, from over 45 feet in the air, a petrified child's cherubic face appeared amidst the palm's fluttering fronds.

DeSoto whistled softly. "_How_ did he ever get up there?"

Gage had an even better question. "_Why _did he ever go up there?"

"It's all…**your** fault!" the child's panting parent exclaimed, and aimed an accusingly glare at each of them.

The boy's rescuers exchanged looks of confusion and incredulity. But 'satisfying their curiosity' was not their number one priority at the moment. The two men turned and started trotting toward their truck.

"I'll grab the gear," Roy volunteered.

"Right!" John acknowledged. "And I'll grab a barf bag."

* * *

The rescuers carried two sets of climbing spurs on their truck. One set had inch-long spikes, for scaling bark-less utility poles, and the other had two-inch steel spurs—or 'gaffs'—for climbing trees. Roy pulled the longer spikes, a climbing harness and a child's life-belt from one of their equipment compartments and went trotting back over to the tree.

His partner pulled an 'urp' sack from another open compartment and then headed back, as well, in the direction of the little boy's hyperventilating mother.

* * *

"Ma-am, I want you to breathe into this bag for me, okay?" the dark-haired paramedic requested.

The young lady looked indignant. "I…will…not!"

"You're hyperventilating. Your respiration rate is through the roof. We need to get your breathing slowed down, before you pass out on us."

The woman reluctantly latched onto the proffered paper sack and, even more begrudgingly, began breathing into it.

"That's it," Gage calmly encouraged. "Nice…deep…slow breaths."

DeSoto finished donning his climbing harness. The rescuer then dropped to one knee and began attaching one of the two gaff stirrups to the heel of his left boot. He got that climbing spur securely fastened and then quickly shifted to his other knee. In no time, the matching spike had been buckled to the inside of his right ankle. Roy stepped up to the stately palm, and secured his slide rope to its trunk. "I'm all set," he determined. "What's your son's name?"

"Jamie. Jameson Alexander Tyson III," the boy's mommy replied, and was relieved to find that her breathing had already returned nearer to normal.

Roy exchanged a thoughtful glance with his partner. "Jamie," he further determined and began his climb.

* * *

As he ascended, the blond-haired paramedic cautiously maintained at least three points of contact with the tree's trunk at all times: a hand, his slide rope, and a spike. The rescuer was particularly careful to twist his heels inward before ramming his climbing spurs against the side of the tree. By keeping his heels turned inward, the curved spikes could get a much better bite in the bark of the palm as he stepped up.

* * *

"They were playing **firemen**," Mrs. Tyson annoyedly announced. "They said they needed someone to rescue. So my son volunteered to be their 'victim'."

Her son's three young playmates were huddled just a few yards away, gazing guiltily down at the sidewalk.

The irate woman paused to give them a highly perturbed glare. "They neglected to tell him that they had no intentions of **really** rescuing him!"

John saw the forlorn looks on the faces of Jamie's young friends. "Hey…Don't worry. We'll get your 'victim' down for you."

"Don't you _dare_ encourage them!" their victim's mommy warned. "Ever since they saw a couple of paramedics rescue someone at the shopping center last week, they've had **firemen **on the their brains! That's all they talk about!" She gave the paramedic another accusing glare and then pointed up into the air. "Just look at what you've gotten my son into!"

The dark-haired fireman heaved a heavy sigh. "Yeah. Well…if **we** got him up there, I'm sure **we** can get him back down. So take it easy, and just keep breathing into the bag for me, okay?"

* * *

The blond-haired fireman finally reached the little boy's level. "Hi there, Jamie. My name's Roy. I want you to hold very still for me, so I can slip this belt around you, okay? Think you can do that for me?"

Jamie was waaaaay too terrified to speak. So the boy blinked his wide eyes and simply nodded—once.

Roy secured the life-belt to the child's waist and then clipped it back on to his climbing harness. "All right, Jamie, you can let go of the tree now…and then, I want you to wrap your arms around my neck."

The petrified kid failed to comply.

So the paramedic pried the child's white-knuckled appendages from the palm's swaying branches and placed them around his neck. "Okay, Jamie…I'm gonna take you down now…nice…and slow."

As promised, their descent from the towering palm tree was both nice…and slow.

* * *

As soon as the pair came within arms' reach, John latched onto Jamie and unclipped the kid's life-belt from his partner's climbing harness. He placed their young victim's posterior down on the grass at the base of the palm's trunk and began his IPS.

Jamie's still-distraught mommy attempted to comfort her still-scared-to-death son.

Roy felt his feet finally hit the ground and exhaled an audible sigh of relief. The fireman unfastened his slide rope from the tree and began removing his climbing gear.

His partner proceeded to perform a quick, but thorough, assessment of their now whimpering patient's physical condition.

The little boy's bare forearms bore some minor abrasions from coming into contact with the tree's rough bark. But, other than that, the child checked out just fine!

Gage gave the boy, and his mommy, a reassuring grin and then shifted his attention to Jamie's playmates.

The children were still standing there on the sidewalk, staring up at their role models—in awe.

Mrs. Tyson didn't want him to encourage them.

But John didn't want to **dis**courage them, either. "Your friend is going to be just fine," he assured the wanna-be rescuers. "But you kids have got to be more careful. Being a fireman is a _very_ **dangerous** job. It is most definitely **not** a _game_. Jamie could have been killed, or seriously injured. If you _really_ wanna do the work that **we** do, you need to study hard, get good grades and graduate from high school. And **then**, if you decide you _still_ want to rescue people and save lives and property, you can apply to the Fire Academy. Okay?"

All four of the children's heads bobbed up and down. Heck, the fireman's audience was so enamored with him, he could have told them they had to eat nothing but broccoli and spinach for an entire month and they, undoubtedly, would have nodded their compliance.

Gage glanced up, to see if his partner had anything he wanted to add.

Roy flashed his lecturing friend a slight smile and remained silent.

The Big Kid would make a fine father…someday.

Jamie's mommy pulled her somewhat recovered son to his feet. "Jameson Alexander Tyson III, you march into that house _right now_ and go straight to your room!"

The boy did an about face and obediently began marching off.

Mrs. Tyson gave the two rescue guys a grateful grin. "Thank you, gentlemen!"

The firemen flashed the woman back some 'you're welcome' smiles, and began carting their equipment back over to their truck.

* * *

The rescue guys got their gear stowed away and then climbed back into their squad.

* * *

Gage reached for the rescue truck's dash-mounted radio's mic'. "L.A., Squad 51. We're clear at the scene and returning to quarters. You can cancel the ambulance."

"**10-4, Squad 51…" **the dispatcher promptly came back.

John replaced the mic' and the two men just sat there for awhile, in thoughtful silence.

"When I was a kid," Gage finally spoke up, "we used to play 'Indians and Cowboys'. I mean, _that_ was **the** thing. And now, kids are playing paramedics." He turned his amazed gaze toward his partner. "Roy, **we** have _arrived_."

"When I was a kid, we used to play 'Cowboys and Indians', too," DeSoto quietly confessed. "But we didn't use **real** bullets and arrows. We used to 'pretend' a lot. We used to use our 'imaginations'. If you ask me, kids these days 'play' a little too realistically. And, if they're going to be _that_ realistic, I'd just as soon they played something else." He suddenly envisioned them being called upon to treat a 'scalping' victim—and shuddered.

"When you put it that way, I guess we should be glad they weren't realistically playing just firemen. They prob'ly would a' set half the block on fire."

The firemen swapped a pair of highly relieved glances.

DeSoto finally flicked their truck's flashing overheads off. The driver then ignited its engine and eased it away from the curb. Something else suddenly occurred to him. "What does Stacey think of your mustache?"

"She hasn't seen it…yet."

"Wasn't _she_ supposed to pick you guys up at the airport?"

"She was sick yesterday and couldn't make it. So she had her roommate drive us home. I tried to see her last night. But she made me stay away. Said she was afraid I might catch some of her _germs_. I called—first thing this morning. No one answered. She must be feeling better, if she went in to work. Right?"

DeSoto flashed his apprehensive associate a sympathetic smile. "When we get back to the Station, you could prob'ly call Headquarters and find out—for sure. She must be there, by now."

Gage gave his helpful friend a grateful grin. "Ri-ight!"

* * *

The paramedics returned to their quarters.

John stepped out into the garage and started heading for the pay phone in the corner of the fire station's rec' room.

* * *

The paramedic pulled a coin from his pants pocket and snatched up the phone's receiver. He deposited his dime in the slot and then dialed a number from memory. "Yes. Personnel Department, please. Extension two-two-six."

The connection had no sooner been made, when the claxons sounded.

**"Station 51…"**

"Sorry. Gotta run," he apologized, and promptly hung up.

* * *

Hank Stanley reached the call station just as John was re-entering the garage. "Nix the push-ups, Gage!"

"Right, Cap!" the paramedic glumly agreed, as he went trotting around the rear of their rescue truck.

"…**woman stuck to a fence," **the dispatcher proceeded to announce, "**at the Community Park…1248 South Hollander Road…Cross-street: Silverton…the Community Park…One-two-four-eight South Hollander…ambulance is responding…Time out: 09:49."**

The two rescuers slid into their seats and then glanced at one another. _Child stuck in a palm tree…woman stuck to a park fence_. The pair could sort a' see a 'pattern' developing for their current tour of duty.

"Station 51. KMG—365," the Captain calmly acknowledged and passed them their copy of the call slip.

"Hang a right," Gage advised.

DeSoto gave his navigator an appreciative nod and pulled ahead.

* * *

Both emergency vehicles exited the fire station, turned to the right and then went racing off down the street, with their warning lights flashing and their sirens wailing.

**TBC**


End file.
